Hollow
by flowinthestream12
Summary: After defeating a witch, Dean watches Sam grow very weak. Sam can't seem to satisfy his hunger & depends on his big brother more than ever before. Limp!Sam & Protective!Dean.
1. Hunger Pains

The jet black 1967 Chevy Impala was a beauty, albeit a small one. Sure, it took turns like the Titanic. But, the inside cabin was a crowded space. Even more so due to the two large men that shared the front leather bench. The Winchester brothers, Sam and Dean, were putting miles of distance in the night between them and their last job when Sam's stomach broke the silence. Dean chuckled at the sound. His younger brother was like a bottomless pit due to his large stature. It took 'round-the-clock snacking to keep Sam's stomach quiet.

He gave Sam an exaggerated wide-eye, "_Uh-oh_."

Sam scoffed from where his enormous frame was crammed into the passenger seat, grumbling, "Shut-up."

Dean smiled at the road when Sam's stomach gave another _growl_, "Sounds like we need to rustle you up some grub. 'Eh, Sammy?"

Sam reached over the back of the bench for his duffle bag, fishing out a zip-lock plastic bag. All hope drained from his hazel eyes when they fell on the dust-like crumbs packed into the corners of the bag.

Sam sighed grouchily, "Ran out of Cap 'n Crunch."

Dean started scanning the side of the road for exit signs leading to any store, "Help me look for a sign, Sammy. It's dark out. Four eyes are better than two."

It was an old distraction technique Dean used when Sammy was going through his growth spurt. Back when they still shared the back seat of the Impala with their father, John, at the wheel, nothing was more irritating than a grouchy little brother. Now that Sam was in his mid-twenties, he was able to control his temper a bit more. But, it still bothered Dean ... to see his little brother in discomfort. Sam slouched in his seat and winced when he banged his knees against the dashboard.

Dean tried to lighten the mood, "Hey, man, I think ... I think I heard an _echo_! I _knew_ it! You've really got hollow legs, Sammy!"

Sam smiled glumly while massaging his big boney knees, "You're _hilarious_, Dean."

Dean frowned when Sam started massaging his stomach. It was almost like it hurt.

Dean scowled at the side of the road, redoubling his efforts to find a place to stop, "Sam, you gotta' be honest with me. You hurt?"

He thought back on the job they had just completed. It was against a witch named Jena that took a particular dislike towards the younger of the Winchesters. Most likely because Sam had to cozy up to her in order to figure out that it was her that had killed her parents using magic. They barely got away with shutting her down.

Sam rolled his eyes, "Never got around to dinner with Jena. You kinda' interrupted us, 'member, Dean?"

Indeed, Dean had 'interrupted' their 'date' as planned. Dean raised his eyebrows, "Hey, she was a witch! For all you know, nothing morally-edible was swirling in that gravy your mashed potatoes were drowning in. Probably saved your life."

Sam tugged his tie loose and tossed it to the back seat, agreeing, "Probably."

Sam's eyes lit up as he jabbed his finger at the glass window, "There, see it, Dean? Next exit has a 7-Eleven -"

Dean frowned at the back of Sam's shaggy head, "Even _I_don't count that place as a restaurant, Sam -"

"You don't understand," Sam faced him and shook his head, "I can't wait till we find a motel or somethin'. I'm really, _really_ hungry. Feel like I'm gonna, like, pass-out, man."

"Hey, I'm tall, too. I get hungry, too. I get it," Dean raised a hand in surrender and turned into the exit lane, "Fine, fine. Have it your way. See if we can find somethin' more substantial than donuts and a slushy, though. Okay, Sam?"

Sam shrugged, "Whatever."

Dean barely set the parking brake before Sam unraveled his overly-tall body from the Impala and was already at the back of the 7-Eleven when Dean unbuckled his seat belt. By the time the bell chimed when Dean entered the store, Sam was already at the check-out counter.

Dean's eyes widened at Sam's load, pointing out a few of the items that stood out to him the most, "Sam, we don't need _three_ bags of freakin' taco shells. Are there any peanut butter jars left? Are those gummy worms?"

Sam smacked Dean's hand away while the exhausted cashier expertly ignored his customers' banter, "That'll be $32.45."

Dean glowered up at Sam as he handed over his debit card, "You owe me a poker game."

By the time they paid for their motel room for the weekend, Sam had finished one taco shell bag and the gummy worms. Both of which Dean had to open for Sam, whose grip kept slacking. Sam was working on a peanut butter jar, again opened by Dean, before he fell asleep. Dean stowed the remaining food in the grimy fridge before flopping down on his own bed.

* * *

Sam blinked heavily as he awoke the next morning. When he sat up, his head erupted in aches and his stomach roared. He gritted his teeth to keep from making a sound that would wake-up his overly-protective older brother. Sam frowned at his wrist ... it looked bonier than before. He picked at the waistband of his sweatpants which seemed to have stretched overnight.

Sam could've sworn that he had tied it as tight as it would go before he fell asleep. He clapped a hand over his stomach when its growls grew so loud he wondered how Dean had not awoken yet. He was so hungry it was painful and he was shaking with weakness. Sam tip toed from his bed to the fridge and took out just the peanut butter jar he had a bit of the night before. He would've chosen the taco shells if the bag didn't make so much noise.

It was with too much effort that Sam had to concentrate on not dropping the peanut butter jar as he made his way to the bathroom. He locked the door behind him and had to refrain from gasping when he saw his reflection in the mirror, illuminated by the unflattering light fixture above. His stomach was completely flat. So flat, his hip bones were visible. In the past, Sam had taken pride in being healthier than Dean. While Dean usually turned to beer and hamburgers, yet somehow didn't grow overweight, Sam's choices were far healthier.

Salads were more his taste. He had been skinny since he lost his twelve-year-old-chubbiness. But, now, he was borderline scary looking. Sam scrambled to open the jar of peanut butter but his trembling hands kept losing their grip.

"_Com'on, com'on_!" Sam hissed to himself as the jar remained stubbornly shut.

It was like it was refusing to open. He hadn't cared the night before asking Dean for help opening the bags and the jar. He was so blinded by hunger that he _couldn't _care. Sam groaned as his stomach gave a growl and doubled-over, knocking the plastic jar off the bathroom sink. It bounced off the toilet lid and hit the floor with a loud _thud_, rolling across the checkered tiles till it stopped at the bathtub.

As expected, Dean awoke with a start.

He saw that Sam's bed was empty and called while rubbing his eyes, "Sammy? You up already?"

Sam scooped up the jar with his large shaky hand and jiggled the doorknob ... he couldn't open that either, "Um, yeah. Hey, Dean? The door's jammed."

Sam frowned at Dean laughing from the other side of the door. Dean chuckled as he heaved himself to his feet and crossed the room to check out the problem.

He gripped the door handle and turned it, "It's locked, Sam. Check it."

"It's not," Sam lied, shaking more than ever from not eating anything yet.

Dean rolled his eyes, "I can feel that it is," he demonstrated by trying to turn the knob. "Be a big boy, Sammy. Com'on, let's get ready for breakfast. I need a shower. Come on out."

Sam tried to unlock the door and felt a shooting pain in his fingers, whispering to himself, "Why can't I open anything?"

Sam sat down on the toilet lid and tried to open the peanut butter jar again, listening to Dean pace outside the door, "What's the hold-up, Sam?"

Sam thought of Jena as his eyes rolled upward, gasping loud enough for Dean to hear, "... the witch ..."

Dean shouted Sam's name and banged his strong fists against the door when he heard his brother slump to the cold tile floor, Sam's head smacking on the corner of the bathtub.


	2. Guardian

Sam jerked awake when Dean brought the door down with a single blow from his shoulder. Blinking up at his brother, Sam forced himself up onto his elbow with more effort than should have been required.

"Sam, what the hell?" Dean knelt down and helped Sam to his feet

Dean seemed to notice a physical change in Sam. It had not been this easy to set Sam right since he left for Stanford. Sam was finding it very hard to repress his groans of agony, his muscles throbbing underneath Dean's strong grip.

Sam hissed, "_Ugh_, I slipped. It was an accident."

Dean was also trying to catch his breath, "'_Slipped_'? What did you say about the witch?"

Sam doubled over as his stomach gave its loudest growl yet, "I dunno. I'm hungry. I'm not thinking straight."

"Good, 'cause I ganked the bitch." Dean reminded Sam while guiding him over the broken down door. Once Sam was seated at the foot of his bed, Dean returned to the bathroom for the peanut butter jar, "Well, I'll admit that you've got a _serious_ case of the munchies, man."

Sam grabbed weakly for the jar, "Think I'm having a sugar crash?"

Dean held it out to him while glancing back at the bathroom, "Literally. Hey, are you bleeding?" Sam was so distracted with struggling with the lid that he didn't flinch away when Dean touched the back of Sam's head, "Damn it, Bobby. Why'd you have to go so soon?" Dean watched Sam struggle for a few more moments before rolling his eyes and snatching the jar out of Sam's shivering hands, "Give me that."

With one good twist, Dean popped the lid off and Sam snatched it back. He ravenously gouged at the thick brown substances, cramming his coated boney fingers so far into his mouth that he gagged once or twice. Sam's hunger seemed to flare like an infectious wound the moment the food slipped down his throat.

"Sammy, you've gotta slow down man," Dean's amused smile started to slack the longer he watched Sam. "Seriously, Sam, you're gonna choke. Stop, damn it!" Dean peeled Sam's fingers away and snatched the jar, holding it out of reach, "You'll get it back after my shower. Can't even leave you alone to freakin' eat now, huh?"

With great difficulty, Sam heaved himself to tower over Dean, "Give it back, Dean."

Dean turned his back on Sam and got the bathroom door locked, separating them just before Sam's long fingers could get shut in the lock, "Just hang tight. I'll only be ten minutes."

Sam hit the door with his clenched fist to transmit his irritation loud and clear. He squinted at the sound of Dean singing a Metallica song in the shower and took a seat at the little circular table by the window.


	3. Not Just A Case Of The Munchies

Though he had tried to hide it, Dean was very concerned about Sam. Nothing was out of the ordinary about that. He was always on the lookout for something to go wrong with his little brother. The big guy was kind of a living magnet for crap like this. Dean ran his mouth beneath the falling water in the shower just as he smelled something strange ... smoke. That was an odor he would never mistake.

Dean furrowed his brows and beaked around the curtain, "Sam? 'The hell is that smell doin' in our room?"

After a few scary seconds passed, he picked up on a quite coughing fit going on from beyond the bathroom door. Without bothering to dry himself, Dean tugged his sweatpants back on and pulled open the door. Sam was sitting at the small circular table set by the window with his back to Dean in a chair that was a bit too small for him. He was wearing his battered snow coat, his hood up to hide his face. He wasn't coughing any more, just sniffling like he had a cold. Dean scrambled to his side and saw a miniscule knitted bag burning to dust at the center of the table.

"She stuck it in when she cut me," Sam explained thickly, quietly, "I dunno how or when. I can't remember, Dean. I'm so ... so exhausted."

Dean growled, "She cut you? When were you cut? You didn't tell me! Why didn't you say anything?"

Sam shook his head slowly from side to side, "She cut my leg. I figured it was nothing."

"So that's it? A _hex bag_ was giving you the munchies? A freakin' hex bag! That's weak. No wonder the bitch was so easy to stop," Dean clapped the back of Sam's chair, to which Sam flinched from the mild impact.

"No," Sam slowly turned to Dean, pushing back the hood of his coat, "it wasn't a weak move, Dean."

Dean felt his jaw go slack. As the light was cast from the window over Sam's face ... Dean blinked as though to make sure he wasn't on an acid trip. Sam looked as though he had lost thirty to forty pounds. His green eyes were sunken and bloodshot, his cheeks were gouged of what little fat they had before, his jaw was so sharp he could stab with it, and his Adam's apple was protruding far more than before. All the muscle in his chest was gone, his collarbones were protruding so far ... Dean collapsed down onto one knee.

"_Sammy_," he said breathlessly, holding the flaps of the coat apart and gently touching Sam's visible ribcage, "No ... no, Sam. What happened?"

Sam was positively trembling from head to toe. He pointed at the floor by the bathroom with a shivering finger, "I fell there. I shook all over Dean for ... then I felt cold. Painful cold. I felt the hex bag then when my ... my leg got skinnier. I burned it, Dean. But, why do I still feel sick?"

Dean helped Sam to his feet, trying very hard not to hold him too hard lest he hurt him, "We need to get you to the hospital, Sam. This is something I can't fix."


	4. Hospitalized

The Impala's tires squealed when Dean stomped on the gas pedal as soon as the engine turned over. Sam was slumped in the passenger seat. Dean had to buckle his brother's seatbelt for him. It was irresponsible, but, neither of the brothers usually wear seatbelts on their journeys across America. But, Dean needed to focus on getting Sam to the nearest hospital.

Luckily, Dean had spotted a general hospital on the way to the motel. Out of habit or paranoia, Dean always took note of these buildings if they happened to pass them. Sam groaned weakly in his seat, trembling from head to toe.

"I've got ya, Sam." Dean glanced over at his brother, "How're you feelin'?"

Sam blinked heavily, "It's hard t-to breathe, Dean. I'm so ... so tired."

"Well, you've gotta stay awake for me, Sammy." Dean told him sternly, fear pumping through his veins. "Come on, Sam, keep talkin'. Talk to me, brother."

Sam's head drooped forward, his sharp chin bouncing on his collar bone as they came up to a red light. Cursing under his breath, Dean laid all his weight on the gas pedal. Sam head was whipped back with the force of the Impala's acceleration. Ignoring the booming car alarms, the Impala rocketed through the intersection without a scratch.

Sam groaned and coughed, "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Dean listened to the sad sound of Sam clearing his throat hoarsely, "Try to hold on, man."

The hospital was still ten minutes away at least and Sam seemed to be deteriorating at the seams. Sam was obviously struggling to remain alert. Sam convulsed as his belly heaved, but, there was nothing but stomach acid to surge up his throat. The sticky substance dripped out the corners of Sam's lips, down his trembling chin, to his collar. Sam tried to look at Dean while wiping at the acid on his battered jacket.

Dean wrinkled his nose at the stench of it. It was morning breath, hang-over breath, and garbage all in one. He left the Impala directly outside the revolving doors at the hospital. Dean had only care for Sam at the moment, whose arm as slumped over Dean's shoulder as his big brother corralled him into the E.R.. Dean kept one hand holding Sam's arm hooked over his neck and Dean's other arm anchoring Sam's waist to his side.

Sam's jacket slipped and Dean's hand clutched for a moment on Sam's distended hip bone.

"HELP!" Dean shouted as they made their way past frightened patients in the waiting area, "Help my brother! It's my brother! He's gotta have someone look at him!"

A male nurse rushed to Dean's side, saying in alarm, "He looks like a Auschwitz victim! What the hell happened?"

Dean didn't know what to say, "Bad case of anorexia? I don't know! Does it really matter? Just fix him! Help us!"

Sam tried to grab weakly at Dean's arms as Dean sat Sam down in a wheel chair, "Dean - Dean! Don't go! Don't leave me -"

"I'm gonna be right behind you, little brother." Dean reassured him as the male nurse wheeled Sam towards the double doors at the far end of the lobby.

* * *

About an hour later, it was all over. Sam was given a room to himself in the small emergency room. His heart monitor showed that his pulse was weak, but, getting better with each passing hour. A thin white tube was snaked up Sam's left nostril, taped in place to his jutting cheekbone.

"It's unfortunate that we needed to use the feeding tube," the doctor informed Dean, standing side by side with the hunter while the pair of them observed Sam sleeping in his gurney. "But, we need to do all possible to try to give him the proper nutrients. It's essential to his survival."

"Was I too late?" Dean croaked, turning his welling eyes to the doctor, "Is he gonna be alright?"

The doctor sighed, "I think ... I think you've got your brother hear just in the nick of time. His B-M-I is in the danger zone. It's a sixteen, sir. That's where we define a patient as 'emaciated'." Dean bowed his head and turned his hard gaze to his brother as the doctor elaborated further, "Any worse than this, his organs would have started to shut-down."

Dean asked him quietly, "None have, though, ... right, doctor?"

"I can't say with certainty that he'll continue to improve. But, yes, none have so far. If he _does_ continue to improve, I'll say he's out of the woods mortality-wise."

Sam flinched in his sleep, muttering under his breath, "_Dean_ ..."

Dean smiled down at his sleeping brother, "He's a fighter ... that's the toughest son of a bitch you'll ever meet right there. Sam'll pull through."

The doctor watched Dean woefully, "I hate to say this. But, he may require help beyond gaining weight, sir."

Dean smirked and shook his head, "Trust me, doc. This is not your everyday case. Sam will be good as new in no time."

The doctor pursed his lips, "To be on the safe side, I'll give you the names of a few shrinks. They're experts in this field."

Dean gestured towards his brother, "My brother don't got an eating disorder, man. He just ...," Dean couldn't quite explain what happened without sounding crazy, "... he just missed a few meals."

"He's a big guy, sir. Your brother should be close to two-hundred pounds. But, he weighed in at a touch under one-hundred 'n forty by our scales. I've gotta say, that's _quite _a number of meals he missed."

Dean was done hearing the doctor go on about eating disorders, "Thank you for your help, doctor. But, seriously. Sammy'll be fine."


	5. Suffering Getting Old

Sam smiled weakly, "Do I look that bad?"

"Kate Moss would be proud," Dean chuckled darkly.

The sun was just barely peaking over the buildings outside the floor-length window of Sam's hospital room when he finally regained consciousness. It had been almost six hours since Dean admitted Sam to the hospital. Since the feeding tube was surgically inserted, Sam would need to stay at the hospital till it could be removed by a doctor. Sam's glazy hazel eyes were bruised around the rims, his lips were drained of color, and his skin had a waxy texture about it. He looked close to death. Dean shuddered at the thought and pulled up a leather chair to sit as close to Sam as he could manage.

"She nearly got you, man." Dean whispered, laying a heavy hand on Sam's sharp shoulder. "That witch-bitch left her mark."

His little brother was reduced to a waif. Sam was buried beneath three heavy feathered blankets and his teeth could still be heard chattering.

Sam closed his eyes and leaned in to Dean's hand for warmth, "I'm freezing, Dean."

"I'll get you a bowl of soup," Dean said hurriedly, getting to his feet.

Sam shook his head fervently as Dean's hand slipped away from his shoulder, "No! Don't go. Seriously, man, I couldn't eat another bite even if I wanted to." Sam gestured at the feeding tube, "How long is this gonna have to stay in? Did they say?"

Dean reluctantly abandoned his mission for soup and took his seat back beside Sam, "We to need to get some fat on 'ya, Sammy. Your freakin' _salad-shakes_ can't help you now. Tell 'ya what: if you gain back ten pounds, I'll bring you one from Olive Garden."

Sam's lips spread into a wide grin as he chuckled, shaking his head, "The Dean Diet is looking pretty appetizing all of a sudden." Sam then tilted his head and smiled comfortingly, lips closed, "Dean, this isn't your fault. Don't go beating yourself up about it. It was out of your control."

Dean bowed his head for a second, "Just wish it had been _me_ who she cursed -"

"Then we'd be in the _exact same_ position we're in now, Dean." Sam reprimanded him stubbornly, wagging a skeletal finger at him.

Dean tried to make Sam laugh again, "Difference is we wouldn't need a freakin' _feeding tube_ to get _me_ fighting-fit again. You've seen me eat."

"Hence my fondness over salads," Sam smiled. "They're really good if you'd just give 'em a chance -"

"Shut-up, Sam." Dean grumbled, then gave him a smile to let him know he was joking-angry.

Sam hissed as he reached for the recliner controller, his arm hair standing erect in the sudden climate change, and sighted grumpily as Dean handed the controller to him, "What are you gonna do while I'm holed-up here?"

"What kind of question is that?" Dean furrowed his brows, "Stay with you, of course."

Sam cocked a disbelieving eyebrow, "Dean, be serious. You'll get tired of watching me suffer -"

Sam broke of suddenly, eyeing his big brother warily. Many seconds passed them by before Dean replied darkly, "It got old _years_ ago, Sammy. But, you're not getting rid of me that easily."

Sam rolled the blankets down to his concave stomach as the bed pushed him up into a sitting position, "Yeah, lucky me."

Dean looked away, determined not to eye Sam's jutting collarbones, "So, a hundred 'n forty pounds ...," Dean pouted his lip, glancing up at Sam out the corner of his eye, "last time you were that weight, you were twelve."

Sam squinted at him, "I stayed there till I was eighteen ... but, I grew a foot taller by that time, by the way."

"You were always a weird kid," Dean grinned.

Sam closed his eyes and yawned, "Don't worry, my growth plates have solidified by now. I won't be getting any more taller than you now."

Dean chuckled, "Now a weird adult. 'Growth plates', seriously, Sammy?"

"Brains before beauty," Sam laughed as sleep tempted him, "Thanks for taking me here."

Dean gently patted Sam's flat chest, "Thanks for not puking in my car."

"No problem," Sam yawned, his smiled slipping.

Dean jolted as the steady beeping noise from Sam's heart monitor gave a skip, "Sammy, what's going on?!"

Sam shook his head, "Relax, Dean. I'm just struggling to keep warm -," Sam flinched away as Dean got to his feet and yanked the blankets up to Sam's neck and tucked them around his shoulders, "Dean - _Dean_! I'm fine, don't worry so much."

Dean was grumbling under his breath, "_Asks me if I'm gonna stay - you idiot_ -"

"Enough, Dean, come on." Sam wriggled his hands free and pressed them to Dean's chest, incapable of pushing him off in his weakened state, "I can't recover if you're gonna react like that all the time. You're gonna give me a heart attack -"

"Well, I thought you were having one!" Dean snapped defensively, sitting back down.

Sam hugged the blankets to his stomach, "Dean, _look _at me," he waited till Dean did as he was told, "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be okay."

Dean let himself take in the details of Sam's sharp jaw line, protruding cheekbones, sunken cheeks, eyes shadowed beneath his brow bone, and limp brown hair, "If you die on me, I'll kill you."

Sam nodded, "Agreed."


End file.
